


On Griffin's Wings: Part 3

by antivanwarden



Series: The Griffin of Enna [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-08-16 20:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antivanwarden/pseuds/antivanwarden
Summary: With a new witcher learning his place on the Path, School of the Griffin witcher Cerissa Lamonia and her company become entangled in a plot to potentially assassinate the king of Kovir and Poviss. What starts as a contract with a forged royal seal quickly turns into much more than the younger witcheress could have ever imagined.





	1. Prologue

Laying in the darkness without so much of a hope that I'd get any sleep, Kuba squirmed in my grip and let out a choked whimper. I smiled despite myself and rubbed his back absently, my smile softening when he pressed closer. His fingers clutched at my nightshirt, grip so tight that his knuckles blanched.

Outside there was the soft crash of the waves on the shore, the melancholy call of the gulls. I smirked at the high pitch scream of a siren that only sounded once, cut off by a wet tearing sound after a satisfying click. There was a draft under the door of our inn room, the salty sea air so thick it coated the tongue. The tepid air was just as damp as the shore itself, clinging to clothes and souls alike.

Kuba hadn't adjusted well. Maybe I hadn't adjusted well, either. He screamed most nights even before we left Kovir, laying just as he was now- tucked up against me and burying his tear streaked face in my shoulders. I don't know if I would say it was better or worse after Eskel went south, maybe Kuba just felt like he didn't have to hide it now. It hurt, he would tell me when I asked. Everything hurt. It still hurt.

It worried me.

He'd rub at this hands and knees the most, scowling and working at the joints until the skin was red. Ointments helped, he would assure me with a smile, but I could tell he was trying not to make me worry. For what little good that did. Most nights I held him while he trembled and tried to tell myself I had done the same for the first few months after the Grasses. Everything felt like it was new again, every sound too loud and every smell too intense. Unlike him, though, I stumbled through the transition in a fog and tried to hide it from everyone else, often times shutting myself in my room between lessons and refusing to come out in hopes it would offer some sort of peace. He didn't bother to hide it as I had, he knew I would be able to tell anyway.

It was the frail smile he offered in reassurance that made a sharp pang twist my stomach. Maybe I had botched something. Maybe my timing was wrong. Maybe-

“Cerissa?” He blinked, looking up at me with sleep weary eyes. “It's okay, I'm okay.”

 


	2. On New Beginnings

    Kuba scowled, snorting when Cerissa shook her head after he glanced at her. He paused for a moment, clenching his jaw, and instead turned his attention back to what Amriel was saying. Amriel tapped his shoulders with a soft sigh, shaking his head.

    “Keep trying.”

    “Yeah, but-” Kuba huffed, practicing the finger motions for aard once again.

    “You're not Cerissa. You're not Olwen. You're not Eskel, or even Geralt. You can't measure your ability by theirs. Try again.”

    One of the rare afternoons where Cerissa would watch lessons from the steps of the back porch, lessons of any kind were found less and less often in the back garden and more frequently in practice, Kuba often following Cerissa or Olwen when they went out looking for work. Though his skills with a blade had certainly picked up in the time that he found himself facing a foe other than his teachers, Kuba found himself more frustrated with the way he fumbled with signs. He would complain that his mother casted with a graceful ease, barely having to think of the hand gestures and dividing her attention evenly among several tasks with no falter in her ability.

    Igni had come easily to the young witcher, now able to light candles from across the room with a slight delay. He used the trick whenever he could, pleased when it would fluster the young women who tried courting him at the fetes Cerissa took him to. His mother would frown and forcefully tap the back of his head with her knuckles or kick at his foot, often times whistling in a crowded room and catching his eye.

    Those were the times he knew trouble was coming once they got home.

    Aard, however, was the one that gave him the most trouble. At times he could barely cast it, scowling at the small puff of air that he insisted wouldn't even be enough to knock a glass over. Others nothing would happen at all, even after repeated attempts. Kuba grew more frustrated which each botched attempted, thought that it was one of the more useful signs in a variety of applications only making him clench his jaw tighter with each failure. Cerissa had tried to explain it to him, even walk him through it, but it was one of the few times he had shouted at her. He felt guilty for doing so, of course, and felt even worse at the widening of her eyes or how her lips had parted. She froze in place for several long moments that felt like an eternity to him, then only nodded and walked away without another word.

    That had been a week ago, and Cerissa still had said little to him other than correcting his posture even at meal times.

    Kuba tried several times to apologize to her, only for her to hold up a hand to silence him. At first the blank expression in her face would spark panic, maybe she didn't want him anymore. Maybe she was starting to see him as a regret. Then came anger. Maybe he wasn't good enough for her, she was ashamed of him and instead turned her attention to other things when before he was all she was worried about. Maybe he hadn't meant as much to her as he thought if that one moment had been enough for her to push him away, some dark part of him reasoned. Maybe the darkest fears he had been denying all this time were truth and she only wanted him as long as he did what she told him.

    “Oren for your thoughts?”

    There was the soft click of the back door latch catching again, the soft creak of the wood when someone leaned against it. Their visitor had taken an interest in watching Kuba's lessons, observing often through squinted eyes and listening very closely beyond the words being said. Often leaving with very few words offered in exchange, Kuba would often bristle and not even realize he was being watched until later.

    “He thinks I hate him,” Cerissa sighed, running a hand through her hair.

    “You've said more to me these past few days than him, to start. He has good reason to.” She opened her mouth to say something, but he sighed, “You're frustrated, maybe not with him, but you are. And that's expected. But he's not the scared one, you are.”

    “I-” she blinked, brow furrowing when she tore her attention from Kuba and Amriel to instead look up Geralt.

    There was genuine warmth in his eyes, coupled with a smile so soft it seemed more like an amused quirk of his lips. He nodded towards the two, looking over Kuba carefully before turning his attention back at Cerissa.

    “May I?”

    She couldn't help the laugh at escaped her, “You're asking my permission?”

    He nodded, “He's your apprentice, not mine.”

    “Perhaps a different perspective would help,” she sighed. “Kuba,” she called, and the boy paused.

    Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes widened for a second but instead set his jaw and practically glared at Cerissa. He turned to face the two, crossing his arms against his chest. “What?”

    “First, we've talked about this, never answer me with “what.” Second, if you're going to have an attitude, remember this is entirely voluntary on your part. You promised me you wouldn't give any less than I or anyone else did. If you're done with this, tell me. And we'll drop it. But seeing as you're still trying, I'm betting you're not willing to give up yet. So, let's try this again.”

    “Sorry, mo-” he stopped himself, grumbling. “Cerissa.”

    Cerissa had to hold back the smile that tugged at her lips at Kuba's slip, Geralt letting out an almost soundless snort and fighting back a smirk of his own. “Apology accepted. Would like someone else to try or are you done for now?”

    “I want to keep trying,” he nodded, letting his stance relax. “I just,” he stopped himself again, setting his jaw in frustration, words hurried. “You've tried. Olwen has. Everyone has. I don't-”

    “I haven't.” Geralt offered with a small shrug.

    Kuba's eyes went wide, jaw dropping until Cerissa was sure she would have to pick it off the ground for him. After several long seconds, Kuba shook his head, and closed his eyes for a few moments longer than a blink. His inhale was exaggeratedly slow, rolling in his bottom lip and biting at it. He took several deep breaths before looking at Cerissa with wide eyes.

    She shrugged, “He asked me, but it's up to you.”

    “But he-”

    “Is sort of your uncle, in an odd way, and is willing to help you if you let him. Back when this all happened in keeps, older witchers helped the novices all the time,” she shrugged. “Again, up to you.”

    A sparkle came to Kuba's eyes, but his brow knitted together to form deep wrinkles. “What's the catch?”

    “No catch,” Geralt chuckled softly, pushing off the railing he had been leaning against and ruffled Cerissa's hair on his way down the steps.

    Amriel came over to join Cerissa, barely able to hold back his laughter as he settled on the step next to her. He sputtered, eyes sparkling as he watched the older witcher coach Kuba through the process, giving a quick revision of the theory behind signs. Amriel glanced over at Cerissa, his smile softening and giggles settling down at the expression on her face. Green eyes tending more towards yellow today, they practically glowed as she watched Kuba take several deep breaths and try to keep his face impassive as he focused. Her smile dimpled her cheeks, gave color to her otherwise pale cheeks.

    She leaned forward slightly as Kuba again performed the hand gesture, biting her lip and holding her breath for a second. She whispered something to herself so quietly Amriel couldn't hear her, but the look in her eyes told her thoughts just as easily. There was a loud popping sound, the rose bushes shoved against the low fencing with a sudden blast and Kuba's excited gasp was audible. Amriel's smile softened at the relief on Cerissa's face, the sparkle in her eyes matching that of Kuba's when he turned to look at her.

    “Knew he could do it,” she whispered to Amriel while Kuba tried again just to prove it wasn't a fluke.

    “Might have just been you two were forced to finally talk to each other,” Amriel pursed his lips, leaning back against the top two steps. “The way I understand magic for you guys is it's willpower.”

    “Basically,” she nodded, “Signs are manipulation of the magic within a living person that don't need extensive preparation.”

    Amriel took a long moment to watch Kuba cast again successfully, the novice starting slightly when several of the flower bushes and plants did not stand back up after the repeated blast. There was the tearing of the fence coming up from the ground and Kuba's shoulders bunched up, scowling when Geralt only laughed.

    “Better than the time I knocked my tutor clear across the room.”

    “Yeah but-”

    “They're plants,” Cerissa called, trying to smother her own laugh. “They'll either grow back  if they die or learn to grow sideways, dearest one.”

 

 

    “You should have seen his face, Eskel!”

    Cerissa practically was yelling out of excitement, her voice filling the room they shared. She bounced slightly where she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes wide and glittering as she went over the afternoon's events  Door to the balcony opened, a warm breeze occasionally rustled curtains but otherwise went unnoticed. The rest of the manor stood mostly quiet this late in evening, the majority of the staff going to bed shortly after dinner to be ready for the next morning.

    Many of the staff had taken an easy interest in their visitor, chatting on and off and learning his tastes as well. Marian in particular had been frustrated when Geralt insisted they don't anything extra to accommodate him, the older woman's frown so deep it was obvious from where Cerissa was reading on the other side of the room. The older witcher's face had broken into a soft smile as the head maid lectured him on her duties of making sure every person in the home, guest or no, was properly taken care of in the best way possible- regardless of their views on their own value or how they lived outside of the manor. Cerissa only mirrored the smile when he glanced over the top of Marian's head to catch her eye.

    Now everything had fit into a new easy routine for the past couple of days. With only one late night to speak of, it was one of the stories Kuba loved telling. It was the first time he had gotten to taste white gull, and the first time he had managed to beat Cerissa at gwent, only for Olwen to beat him in the next round of the tournament. He decided easily he didn't like the witcher's spirits, hating how it coated his mouth and made everything taste odd for the next few hours after even just a taste.

    Eskel laughed, settling next to her. Though a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, he shook his head in disbelief. “And the plants will never be the same.”

    “Damn the plants! Being short on wolfsbane for a month or two was worth the look in his eyes when Geralt offered to help!”

    “I remember very clearly a young griffin who woke me up one night over a certain letter with an expression that was similar.” He stroked her hair, resting his hand at the back of her head to pull her closer.

    She fought back the urge to stick her tongue out at him like child who was losing an argument. “So what's the plan? Figured you'd leave with him for awhile.”

    “Don't think about it right now,” he sighed, scowling. “You're always moving, always thinking of the next thing. Just enjoy this for now.”

    “Yeah, I know, I think too much for my own good, but this is going to end and I just want to be ready for when it does.” She pursed her lips. Heaving a heavy sigh, she let her eyes close, “I like having a house full of people I can call friends. I missed all the friendly jabs and laughing that comes with having a group of witchers to call family. And it's been awhile since the staff had someone new to learn every little thing about so I'm sure they're loving every second of it. Especially Marian, always did pride herself on her service.”

    “If you spend the time we do have worrying, you won't enjoy it. It'll be at least a few days more, Wolf just got here and it's a long trip back.” Eskel paused, smirking and trying to hold back a laugh. “If the old man can handle the ride back.”

    Cerissa tried to scowl even though her lips betrayed her and instead split into a wide grin. Her laughed filled the room when she pulled away enough to slap his arm lightly. “You're just as old, wise guy! Don't let the gray hair fool you. And you two are pretty damned young relatively.”

    Eskel curled his lip in and bit it in an effort not to say anything, losing the fight of holding in another laugh. “You sound just like him sometimes.”

    She only groaned in response, grabbing her pillow and tossing it at him as he continued to laugh. He smirked, easily ducking out of the way, and grabbed her wrist instead. Pulling her down with him, he pressed her down against the mattress. Cerissa smirked, welcoming the challenge, and reached up as if to grab one of his arms but instead smothered a laugh when he grabbed hers instead.

    It had been too long since they wrestled like this, one trying to always pin the other between half hearted attempts and laughs. Eskel had her firmly pinned, practically sitting on her pelvis and her wrists clasped in one hand above her head. She wiggled, testing his grip, and scowled when he leaned forward to take one wrist in each hand press them harder into the mattress.

    “Well, little fledgling? Giving up that easily?” He challenged, voice warm against her neck before he kissed the hollow in her throat.

    Feet flat against the bed, she pushed up as best she could with her pelvis and only scowled when he pressed down in reaction. He smirked, obviously pleased with himself, when she scowled.

    “That's the best you can do?” A shiver ran down her spine at his growl of a whispered challenge and she cursed herself for the low whine that escaped her. “I know you’ve got more fight in you, Cerissa.”

    She gritted her teeth, lifting herself with her thighs, and pushed against his hold on her wrists with her shoulders. Cerissa couldn’t help the grin when she managed to force him off of her, though he laughed when she reversed the roles by sitting on his waist.

    “Pinned you,” she laughed, breathless.

    He only nodded, more a dip of his chin, reaching up and gathering a stray lock of hair to tuck it behind her ear. She half expected him to tangle his fingers in her hair and tug, but instead he gently rested it on the back of her neck. His smirk had long softened, looking up at her with a distant look of awe she had caught him wearing several times in the past. Usually reserved for when they met gazes over locked swords, there had been a few times she had glanced over her shoulder in the study to see him watching her with the same careful gaze. It was different from the assessing expression she usually saw him wear, this one gentler and yet somehow more intense at the same time.

    “You’re a million miles away, Eskel,” she whispered, even that seeming too loud in the near silent room.

    The air felt too thick, the room too full. It was that same giddy uncertainty that filled her and made her skin tingle, suddenly solidifying and pressing against her chest. Their heartbeats too loud, near ragged breathing slowing to match the other’s pace as they usually did. She wasn’t sure exactly when it had become a shared compulsion of theirs, but she guessed it had to do with all the times they often meditated near one another that it gradually became almost habitual to try and match the other’s breathing. But this feeling was the same rush as when he first cupped her chin and kissed her with everything he had in that tavern. But that had been a rough, desperate thing. This was gentle, his fingers soft against her skin as though she was made of glass. The same yellow eyes that at the beginning of their relationship that sent her thoughts scattering, the same soft smile and part of his lips when she ran her fingers over them.

    Suddenly it was like the beginning of all of this again, the feeling too intense and dizzying to possibly hold in. Eskel reached up, gently toying with the chain of her medallion, and smirking slightly when it trembled under his touch.

    “Just like the owner…” he mused, expression softening again when Cerissa settled to half lay on him, most of her weight still perched on her knees.

    “Yours does the same if I touch it,” she protested weakly. “Always figured it’s the-”

    “Cerissa,” he interrupted her gently.

    “Hm?”

    He shook his head then tugged her closer by her medallion to kiss her with a strength that sent a small tremble through her, teeth dragging on her bottom lip when he pulled away. She didn't let him, meeting his lips again and laughing against them in a warm puff of air when his fingers reached up to tangle in her hair.

    “If you want to start that again,” he practically breathed the words, ducking his head to nip at her neck and pushing himself more upright.

    She shifted easily, legs outstretched at his sides so that she was practically sitting in his lap. Resisting when he tried to push her down again, she let out something between a growl and a whine when he mouthed at the dip above her collarbone. Suddenly the air was heavy again, her breaths ragged when she slipped an arm around his shoulders.

    “What about-”

    “Hush, Cerissa. Just let go for once.”

 


	3. On False Truths

Cerissa stared at the breathless courier that arrived early one afternoon, scowling when he tried several times to speak and instead anything hat came out was gasps. He eventually gave up after several attempts at greeting her properly, instead fumbling through his bag and producing a letter written on heavy parchment. The parchment held shut by a seal in red wax, she quickly tipped the man before retreating to her study. She didn't bother to wait until behind the relative safety of her study's doors, she easily popped the wax seal using the edge of her medallion as she passed through the dining room.

 _Marchioness Cerissa Lamonia, Witcher of the School of the Griffin,_ it began as Cerissa paused, one hand on the handle of the large doors that lead to her study.

_I know that typically those of your type do not become entangled with matters concerning large wyrms, I have a request of the lady, if I may. My soldiers have received numerous reports of a dragon along the Southern road, and while it may seem hard to believe that such a beast would remain in this time, I must ask that you investigate this matter further. I fear there is not more information I give, aside from delirious details regarding both acid and fire breath and what my men say is a “large, flying monstrosity.”_

 

 

“And we all know how the stories of my fellow, George, went,” Cerissa huffed. “A dragon? A real one? I doubt it. Though I've said that before and been proven wrong.”

“Could also be a trap,” Olwen offered, brow furrowing as she read over the letter several times. “Does 'e always refer to you by yer full title?”

“In letters it's proper,” She nodded. “But something feels wrong about it. Usually the king sends for me if he needs to speak with me, not sending cryptic letters. He knows I need more information than a vague location to even start looking.”

“Definitely a trap then. How long of a ride would it be to the capital?” Amriel clarified, reading over Olwen's shoulder.

“Few days at most,” she groaned, pinching at the bridge of her nose. “And Moose is getting old, I don't want to push him too hard.”

“Could take Modolf or the pup's mare.”

Cerissa's groan only deepened. “On the one hand, an actual dragon. On the other, treason and forgery of royal seals. Tell me how I get mixed up in this shit.”

Amriel smirked, “A witcher with a title of nobility. What did you expect? Go gallivanting off on the Path and just appear here for several months without doing any work for the crown?” He laughed when a deep scowl marred her features. “I mean, grab Kuba and run off into the woods with Eskel and Geralt. See where that gets you. You're not the normal idea of a witcher, never have been since I met you. So of course you're going to get pulled into these things.”

Cerissa forced herself to take a deep breath, leaning back in her chair and staring up at the ceiling as if she could see the stars through it. “I'll wait to see our wolves off and then request an audience with his majesty. Something tells me he'll want to know about this.”

 

 

A small group of nobles lingering nearby, a young brown haired man that had stood firm during one of the most bloody wars the Northern Kingdoms had seen sat on a throne in a room with a cavernous ceiling. One of his advisers standing nearby, the young king's eyes were narrowed with disinterest at the incessant chattering of a noble bringing a petition against a local guild. Claiming the guild was fraudulent, the older woman's voice dragged on in a way that sounded like metal being pulled across stone. Her face marked with more lines than a trademap, she stopped herself and scowled when she realized the king was no longer paying attention.

There was a knock at the large doors and a man stood at the back of the hall, clearing his throat. He bowed deeply to the king, swallowing nervously at the wide grin that broke across the younger man's face as he straightened. Dressed in blue and red, the page forced himself to take a deep breath before speaking. All eyes were on him, most present in the room not having seen those heraldry colors in the royal palace for what seemed like several lifetimes. Despite the warmth that flooded his face, the page stood with his head high and looked straight ahead.

“Forgive the interruption, Your Royal Majesty, but my mistress, Marchioness Cerissa Lamonia, wishes to speak with you concerning a matter most grave.”

The man sat a little taller, shifting in his chair and folding his fingers together to rest his chin on them. “The nature of her matter?”

“A potentially false contract offered to her as a witcher of the School of the Griffin in your name, Your Majesty.”

There was a collective gasp that spread over the crowd, one of the older women audibly clicking her lips against her teeth. The page did not shift even as those around him stepped away as if they were afraid of contracting something from the man. The woman who previously had been speaking turned to glare at the page, and even then he did not move, standing perfectly still and awaiting his answer as he had been instructed.

After several long moments, a guard dressed in heavy plate moved as if to remove the page, but the king waved him off. “Go get your mistress.” He looked over his shoulder at an elderly gentleman who lingered nearby, “I will take this meeting in my-”

“Not necessary, Your Majesty.”

The doors swung open suddenly, many of those in the room hurrying to get out of the way of the heavy wood as it slammed against the stone walls. Not pausing to bow and not showing any interest in the guards that readied their halberds as she strode forward, the witcheress showed no concern for her own safety as she stopped midway down the aisle runner leading up to the throne. The king smirked, there was fire in her eyes that set that awful shade of green ablaze. Dressed in a noblewoman's gown, the fabric was pressed against her chest where her leather sword harness sat heavily. It was as much of a warning as it was a challenge to the guards in the room, a reminder of just who she was.

The king smirked, it had been awhile since he had the Griffin of Enna present in his court. And yet, here she stood with eyes that demanded answers, damn the rules and regulations of the court that commanded her wait her turn. The set of her jaw echoed the silent scream of the medallion around her neck, chin held high in an act of defiance. She worked with the crown, but never for. Standing perfectly still even as the guards edged closer to her, she at least waited for him to prompt her before speaking.

“A false contract you say?”

“Correct,” she nodded. “A week ago a messenger arrived at the doorstep of my family manor and hand delivered a parchment with your seal on it. Now rumors of dragons aside, even as a young witcher I find those hard to believe, I know it not in your character to send a letter in place of one of your men, Your Majesty.” She paused, and he nodded to show he was listening and she could continue, “And since you have not interrupted me to say that you indeed sent word for me without speaking to me directly, am I correct to assume that there is someone who instead wishes to either dispose of myself or mack a mockery of the crown?”

“Perhaps something far more sinister, witcher.” He nodded, “Do you have the parchment with you?”

“Of course.”

“In trade for the false contract, I offer you this.” He stood, every person in the room save for the witcher immediately dropping to one knee.

He smirked at the witcher's loyalty to her code, finding her brutal honesty refreshing in a time when many who stood before spoke in coded tongue. In the few times he had the pleasure of speaking with the woman, she did not bother with dancing around subjects that she deemed important enough to bring to his attention. She did not hide behind illusions and attempt to present herself as any more or less than what she was. The woman whose face now all but glared at him was a reminder of an age that was slowly slipping away, young but somehow an ancient remnant of magic most had forgotten.

When the king stepped forward off the small platform the guards tensed but the witcher showed no sign of reaching for her weapons. Her fingers remained still at her sides, her expression not softening as he stopped a mere feet away from her. Without saying anything, he offered his hand and she nodded, digging through the hip pouch she wore and producing a folded piece of parchment. Taking it from her, the king's eyes narrowed as he read the lettering. Fingers gripping the parchment tighter each pass, he did not look up at the witcher when he spoke again.

“Find me the ones responsible for the forgery,” he hissed, as though meant for her alone. “Treat them as you would your monsters. Bring me either their corpse or heads, but do not leave them alive.”

“In return?”

“You will have anything you wish.”

“I want the land that Kaer Y Seren stood on added to the title of the Lamonia family,” she answered without pause.

He blinked, looking up at her in surprise. “The rubble of an old witcher's keep? That is all you desire?”

She shook her head, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but it is not simply rubble.”

“Your request will be granted. And in addition, more traditional payment for your services on completion.” He rose his voice, folding the parchment and handing it to one of his servants. “This concludes our meeting, Lady Lamonia. I shall see to the transfer of your keep.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She offered a small nod in place of a bow and turned on her heels, leaving as quickly as she had come.

 

 

Kuba looked between Cerissa and the open throne room doors while she brushed past him, shifting from foot to foot for several moments before following after her.

“You could have gotten killed!” He hissed, keeping his voice low.

Cerissa froze midstride, Kuba nearly crashing into her in his haste to keep pace. She turned, and his eyes went wide at the expression on her face. Despite the air she put on in the throne room, her pupils almost ate all of the green of her eyes. Her jaw had only tightened. “I want you to listen to me for a moment, okay?” Her voice was tense, her hands balled into tight fists at her sides. “You are a witcher. And they will use your titles, but they will walk all over you if you let them. Do not give them the opportunity.”

“But-”

“You are the son of a marchioness, but you're a pox ridden freak and a mistake. Engrave that on your heart, because they will not let you forget it.”

 


	4. On Darkness Tested

Pushing Moose faster, Cerissa scowled against the rain. She didn't bother to make sure Kuba was following, she could hear the thunderous hoof-falls of his horse, a brown spotted mare named Kuba dubbed Fudge, not far behind her. The road had long grown dark, the forest around them now creaking with each breeze and filled the snuffling of creatures coming out to forage. A moonless night, the lingering promise of the coming snow only made the rain seem even colder. She shivered as the wind cut right through her leather, frowning when Moose skidded to a halt. Rearing, Cerissa stood in the stirrups to avoid being tossed from the saddle as the black gelding stumbled several steps backwards.

“Shush, Moose,” Cerissa sighed, drawing axii with her fingers and smoothing the horse's mane when he heavily settled back on all fours. “Good boy. Shh, it's alright.”

“What happened?” Kuba slowed to a stop alongside her, frowning when even Fudge began to prance nervously in place.

She shook her head silently, still standing in her stirrups, and squinted into the dark. “Horses can be jumpy.” She frowned, making out a dark figure standing in the road a few feet up where thy had stopped.

“Cerissa,” Kuba tugged on Fudge's reins, trying to calm her. “Maybe we should turn back.”

Cerissa instead dug in her hip pouch for a bottle of a gray substance that almost looked like oil and another in a blue tinted bottle that looked more like perfume. She downed the first without so much of a wince, hesitating when she uncorked the second. Scowling, she swirled the bottle once and looked at Kuba.

“Never do what I'm doing and take more than one when you're using Petri's Filter, Kuba.”

“Why?”

“You'll see in a moment.”

Drinking the other in two quick sips, he watched in horror as her face paled even more and the veins in her face grew more apparent. Her breath caught and she nearly pitched forward, panting for a few seconds before righting herself with a shake of her head. Her hands still shook as she lowered herself from the saddle, one hand reaching back to rest on the hilt of her silver sword.

“Didn't think you would fall for the bait, little griffin.” Sneered the figure, not moving even though she could hear the rustle of other footsteps in the underbrush. “You spread your disease and act as though it is a blessing to this world. You-”

She stopped listening to the figure speaking, hand switching to her steel sword that she drew in one fluid movement. A snapping twig, hurried footsteps. One hand trying to grab her from her right side, she spun and brought her sword around in an arc, severing his hand from his wrist. He fell to the ground with a scream. Only glancing down at him as he squeezed at this wrist in effort to stop the bleeding, she snorted and calmed herself. Cerissa could hear at least four other heartbeats, one of the people panting harshly.

“Should I-”

“Take Moose's reins and go back up the path some ways, Kuba. Take a wide arc through the woods and meet me back here.” She reached in her pouch and tossed him a bottle of the oily liquid without looking. “Cat. In case it gets too dark. Now go.”

Kuba nodded, catching the bottle and shoving it into his pocket. He whistled for Moose, the horse still under the effect of Cerissa's casting, and grabbed the horse's reins when he came alongside Fudge. He paused, looking back at Cerissa, and gritted his teeth as he instead turned back up the path. Once he was out of earshot, he quickly climbed from Fudge's saddle. Not bothering to tie them to a tree, he knew they would come if he and Cerissa whistled from them. He hesitated on the edge of the forest, staring into the trees and feeling his mouth go dry at the sounds that met him. One hand on the hilt of his steel sword, Kuba forced himself to take a deep breath and stepped off of the path into the tree line.

“You're a witcher, Kuba,” he coached himself. “A real witcher.”

 

 

“A wise choice to send your pup away.”

Footsteps behind her, heart pounding. She simply turned, drew a design with her fingers, and grinned when the man instead turned on the one who was now approaching from the left. Watching her now willing puppet would-be attacker easily cleave the head from the shoulders of the second with his heavy axe, she grinned when he froze when the sign's influence drained. With a roar, he turned to her and raised his axe.

Cerissa dropped into a defensive position, sword at the ready, at he brought the axe straight down. Jumping back at the last moment, the axe instead crashed down into the dirt, the man gritting his teeth as he wrestled with the heavy weapon. More footsteps, another pounding heart. Cerissa didn't turn fast enough, feeling an arm around her throat, and a sharp pain at her lower back. The man with the axe managed to tug the weapon free of the ground, hoisting it onto his shoulder, and smiled in a way that made her skin crawl. Lips pulled away from his teeth in a wide grin, she snorted and stepped back.

The man with the knife holding her tightened his grip, cursing, and she grinned she managed to stomp on his foot with enough force to make him let go. Another shape drawn, Cerissa turned as she brought her hand up. The motion sending a thick wave of energy cutting through the air, the man flew backwards and hit a tree with a sickening crunch before toppling to the ground.

There was the sounds of a hasty retreat even as the man with the axe instead stepped forward. “C'mon, little lady,” he sneered, “Let's dance.”

She could feel her potion's effects waning, the terrible pulling feeling that Petri's Filter gave her starting to ease. Her vision no longer hazed around the edges from the levels of poison in her blood, the tightness in her chest finally gave way and she gratefully drew in a deep breath. The man grinned, taking her brief pause to gather herself as hesitation as he gathered up momentum with a half turn and brought his axe around to hit her side. Cerissa gritted her teeth, easily pirouetting out of range of his axe, and brought the pommel of her sword down on his hand with a satisfying crunch. With a muffled scream, the man dropped the weapon and glared at her as he cradled the injured hand with his good one.

“Let's dance,” she repeated, mouth splitting into a grin that made him take several steps back.

“You freaks aren't human!” He screamed, falling backwards in his hurry as his foot caught on a root from a large tree just on the edge of the forest.

“Witcher,” she sang the word, bringing her sword up so that it pointed straight down. Driving it into the man's chest just behind his left clavicle, rewarded with a spray of blood. She grinned, twisting the blade, pulling it out, and turning to the last figure before the man's corpse even dropped to the ground.

The cloaked figure hadn't moved the entire fight, grin growing wider with each of Cerissa's successful kills. “Show me your talons, witcher,” he purred, reaching up to drop his hood. “Show me your blade dances.”

 

 

Kuba hurried through the under brush, surprised when even in the heavy leaf litter his footsteps barely made a sound. He scowled, trying to control his breathing, and ignored almost every little crunch of twigs and brush that echoed in the forest around him. It was easy enough to find his way back, pausing on the treeline and watching with a wide grin as Cerissa easily dispatched several men much larger than her. Her attention turned to a man who had tumbled backwards, he watched as the figure in the dark cloak took a vial from his pouch and swirled it before replacing it. Kuba's eyes narrowed, gritting his teeth as he carefully picked his way through the underbrush.

“Show me your talons, witcher,” the man purred and Kuba managed to get behind him without so much as kicking a pebble, one hand already drawing his steel sword. “Show me your blade dances.”

Cerissa met Kuba's eye over the man's shoulder and nodded, her smile softening when he grinned. “Don't kill him, dearest one. We need answers.”

The man started slightly, heartbeat quickening when he realized she wasn't speaking to him. Kuba nodded, turning to gather force and managing to slash the man deeply in his side. The hooded figure screamed with the wet sound of tearing flesh, spinning to face Kuba and only managing to widen the wound. The young witcher's grin was just as sickening as the older one's, the glow of his eyes unnatural. The man stared wide eyed at this child, at the blade slick with his blood. At the glowing green eyes and raven medallion around his neck.

One hand gathering up some of his cloak and pressing it into the wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding, the man gritted his teeth at the burning sensation now spreading up his side. Kuba took a step forward and the man took one back before realizing his mistake, looking between Cerissa and the boy in front of him.

He cursed the lord who had given him this job, cursed himself for being so greedy that he let the gold blind him. A witcher! He should have thought twice, he knew now, looking at the corpses of his men laying in pools of their own blood. Lowlifes themselves, their band had freshly formed following the chaos that was the war further south. A well dressed man with a thick accent offered him what the man called the opportunity of a lifetime, even paying half up front to ensure the job was done correctly.

But he had made errors. He had underestimated just how smart the freak would be, how quick she would be. He didn't expect her to bring a child just as mutated as she was with her. And yet here he stood in the darkness of the woods, soaked to the bone, between two witchers- both with swords drawn. He reached into his pocket for a small of vial he was instructed to take if cornered or captured, pulling the cork when the younger stepped forward just as the cork fell from his fingers.

 _Deep breath. Clear your mind for just a moment. Focus on the movement of your fingers,_ Kuba remembered, swallowing back the nervous bile at the back of his throat. He had one chance to make this work. _A sign is only as strong as your focus. Picture sending that breath forward as you exhale, make it solid in your mind._

It happened so fast, but Kuba couldn't help the grin as it worked. A small blast pushing the vial out of the man's fingers and sending it clattering to the ground with a satisfying clink, the man's eyes went wide as he too tumbled backwards. He reached for something else in his pouch but froze when he looked up to see the tip of the young witcher's sword at his throat.

“She said not to kill you but I won't hesitate if you continue to resist.”

“This is so much bigger than you freaks,” the man hissed, glaring at the boy.

“Kuba.”

The man grinned at the tension in Cerissa's voice, meeting the boy's eyes. “Do it. Prove you're no better than a common killer. Let me taste your blade.”

“No,” Kuba shook his head, sheathing his sword and crouching to the man's level. “I'm better than that.” The man swallowed when Kuba's hands balled into fists, opening his mouth to say something but not managing to before the boy punched his temple so hard that his vision went white for a moment. Tumbling sideways, he heard the woman muttered praise to the boy before he felt the ground beneath him.

Then nothing.

 

 

“I really did want to kill him.” Kuba grumbled, jaw tight. “He saw right through me.”

“You wanted to protect yourself and me,” Cerissa corrected, sheathing her sword and bending to pick up the vial Kuba had knocked from the man's fingers. “Seems Geralt's lesson stuck, hm?”

Kuba nodded with a smile, checking the man's pulse at his neck to make sure he hadn't accidentally killed him. “Right when it counts, I finally manage.” Feeling gentle thudding under his fingers, he let his hand fall away and looked up at Cerissa, “What is that, anyway?”

Cerissa sniffed at some of the liquid in the bottle, scowling and her nose scrunching up when her nostrils burned. “Hemlock. Smells like moon flower and wolfsbane added for good measure.”

Kuba scowled, opening the man's hip pouch and rummaging through it. “That wouldn't even be a quick death. And it'd be painful. What a terrible way to die.”

Cerissa nodded, pouring the rest from the vial and pocketing the empty bottle. Not finding anything of interest at first glance in the man's belongings, Kuba instead turned his attention to the wound in the man's side. Pulling his clothes away from it, he looked up at Cerissa as if to ask for help.

Her smile softened, coming kneel beside him. “I've got some spirits in Moose's saddlebags we can clean it with. It's a clean cut, and not very deep. Good job restraining yourself.”

Kuba beamed as she straightened, taking her glove off to press her thumb and middle finger together. Pressing the encircled fingers into her mouth, she blew against them and he smiled at the loud whistle that sounded down the path. “You have to teach me that one day, Mom.”

She smiled without looking down at him, watching the horses come trotting down the path. “I love how you call me Mom more often, dearest one,” she barely whispered.

“Oh, and this,” he produced the bottle of Cat she had given him earlier. “You realize I never used potions before, right?”

“You just drink a majority of them and they do the rest of the work,” She raised an eyebrow at him, scowling slightly. “Easy.”

“No, I mean, you never let me before.”

“You never asked. I didn't let you before the Grasses because it would be toxic,” she shrugged, going to meet the horses and digging through Moose's saddlebags to find several small bottles of nearly clear spirits and some cloth bandages. “You're perfectly able to now. But the rule I set is you had to make them, right? And you don't have much interest in alchemy unlike me.”

“Why do I have to make them?” he pouted, shoving the bottle back into his hip pouch.

“So you learn what's in each of them,” she sighed, settling on the ground next to him, “Scoot over a little, please. Thank you.” He watched as she poured the contents of one of the bottles on a wad of bandages, then pressed them against the wound. “You learn the effects of each more easily if you know what goes into making them. The bottle of Cat I handed you has-”

“Aether, white gull, cortinarius, yarrow, allspice...” he paused, thinking.

“Starts with a 'b',” she provided. “Grows mostly near mountains or swamps. Eskel told you how it used to grow everywhere at Kaer Morhen.”

“Berbercane?”

She nodded, “And what's in aether?”

He smiled as she continued to talk him through casual review, as they were surrounded by bodies. Even as she had her hands covered in another man's blood. Even as the horse's nervously scratched at the ground, jumping at almost every sound. He edged closer to her, grateful for the sound of her voice to calm him. Cerissa smiled, wiping the majority of the man's blood off of her hands once she was satisfied with how she bandaged the wound.

“Get my trophy rope from Moose, will you? Wouldn't want our friend going anywhere when he wakes up. We'll see if I can find any dry limbs or anything nearby and we'll set up camp, okay?”

 


	5. On Trust

He struggled against the rope even as he barely fumbled at the edges of consciousness. There was the sound of laughing, muffled at first, and it got clearer as he slowly came creeping back into consciousness. A sickly smell hung in the air, like fresh flesh being roasted, and he cringed.

“See where it gets you,” the woman repeated in a mocking tone, earning another laugh from the boy. “See if I ever skin anything for him again.”

“He wasn't saying you can't survive out in the wilderness, just that you don't like it,” the boy teased, pausing for a moment. “Cerissa? I think he's awake.”

He blinked, vision hazy at first and coming into focus slowly as his eyes adjusted to the flickering light of their small camp fire. Several sticks with half cooked meat stood balanced over the flames, stuck between rocks to keep them steady as it cooked. The woman looked up from cleaning her knife and he cringed, the firelight catching her eyes just right and making them seem to glow. Face shrouded with shadow, she sighed and folded a piece of leather over the blade, setting it aside.

“And so he is.”

He glared at her, watching her languidly rise to her feet and dust her knees off. She tutted absently, stretching, and it took every effort in him not to scream at her to hurry up. Catching his eye as she reached her arms over her head, her lips split in a wide grin that showed every tooth she had. She knew she was making him nervous, she knew the tension of waiting was only making him squirm. He set his jaw, struggling against the tight bondage at his ankles and wrists, but only earning pain when the rope dug into skin.

“So,” she crossed the small space, ducking down to grab the thick knotting that ran along his back and practically throwing him against a nearby tree. “Let us skip the foreplay, you obviously know who and what I am. And I don't give a fuck who you are.” He set his jaw, practically biting his lip. Laying crumpled against the tree, his shoulders ached from where they slammed against the rough bark. He spat and she only raised an eyebrow. “Death it is,” she shrugged, turning to the boy. “What do you think? Nutmeg tonic?”

The boy scowled as he thought, turning the sticks over the fire. “If you wanted it to be messy, just give him a witcher's potion. Worst, he's dead. At best he won't remember who he is.”

The woman pursed her lips, nodding. She turned back to the man, her eyes catching enough light that they flashed like a cat's.

“Ploughing witch is what you are,” he spat, trying to rub his wrists against the tree.

“Witcher, not witch. Small difference,” she paused, tilting her head in interest. “And where do you plan on going once you've gotten away? How do you plan on getting away, exactly?”

The boy paused, looking around for a moment, and glanced in the woman's direction. She nodded the smallest amount, more a dip of her chin, and she walked back over to the fire to retrieve her knife. There was a moment's pause, the boy sighing and setting the skewers aside before getting to his feet as well.

“I'm going to take a walk,” he muttered, gathering his sword and harness from where it was leaning against a nearby tree.

“Be careful,” the woman called after him, face gentle. She watched long after he had disappeared from the man's view, her lips tugging into a smile before she turned back to the man. “As we were saying,” she nearly sang, crouching to his level. “Why were you waiting in ambush for me?”

He only sneered, pulling his head back and hitting her forehead with hers. Though she fell backwards, the witcher only sighed. Righting herself again, she grabbed the rope collar she had woven around his throat.. He had to give the woman some measure of credit, her knot work hadn't budged despite his attempts to loosen it. Hands bound together behind his back with a series of tight knots, she then formed a chain up his back to circle around his neck.

For a moment he wondered if she had done this before.

“Cute kid you got,” he spat, coughing from the force against his windpipe. “You steal him, freak? Take him from his mother's arms? Did you enjoy it while you-”

Something in the woman broke, a fleeting moment where her confident smile faltered. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and instead brought her hand up. He braced himself in case she intended to hit him but instead was met with an enveloping warmth, a fog snaking its way into his mind.

“Tell me everything,” she purred.

 

 

Every tree creaked. Every blade of grass and flower had a scent. He had easily gotten accustomed to that. It was easy learning to filter out the feeling of the ground beneath his feet or how the breeze felt colder than before. Learning how to judge distance based on how loud a sound was had taken more time than he would have liked to admit, but it seemed odd to him that something he had once struggled with was now second nature.

He paused only a few feet away from their campsite, still able to see the warm glow of the fire. Foot steps, feet crashing through the underbrush. Racing heartbeats. There was the soft clatter of metal being dropped, or maybe a loose hand guard hitting the blade as its owner shook. Kuba took a deep breath, drawing his sword and simply waiting.

“Nice blade you got there, kid.”

Kuba shifted his stance, readying his blade and making sure his face betrayed nothing. Two men dressed in ragged looking leather armor approached him, ugly smirks showing teeth that rotted out of their mouths. One's tongue cut from his mouth, both were covered in tattoos like looked like the original designs were drawn by a drunk person.

“Little kid like you shouldn't be out in the woods alone, the wolves would get you,” the other nearly purred the words, scowling when Kuba didn't show any signs of moving. He drew a sword from the scabbard at his hip, the other laughing as he drew a long knife and began to circle Kuba.

“How about you just hand that blade over, hm?”

Kuba snorted, taking only a few seconds to shift his stance and smirked when the man with the sword braced himself. Instead Kuba spun, catching the other man with his arm half raised and easily cutting his hand from his arm. The man screamed, dropping to the ground. Widening his stance, it was another half turn in the opposite direction for Kuba to gather enough momentum to bring his sword around in a shallow arc. It wasn't clean cut and he grimaced, the man's head hanging loosely from the nerve bundles that hadn't been completely severed in the swing. The body toppled forward and the other man took a half step back.

“The fuck?”

Kuba couldn't help the dark smile that came to his lips, wishing he had this control back in Novigrad. Wishing he had been able to do this while he watched the witch hunters burn elf after elf. Wishing he had the confidence he had now to open his mouth. But it would have been for nothing, he knew it, he would have still been a child. Nothing would have changed. He would have still scraped by and begged for meals. He'd still be dodging the city guard if he hadn't decided to follow Cerissa that first time he saw her in the market.

He tossed his still wet from the rain hair out of his face and couldn't help the laugh at the man's face when he took another step forward. Eyes wide. Lip trembling. This was a child, he was surely thinking to himself, just a kid and yet-

Kuba stepped over the body and the other man gathered himself up enough to meet the boy's advancement, parrying one blow. Kuba easily danced just out of the man's reach, parrying one of his swings and knocking the sword from his hand. Panting, the man glared at him.

“And what are you supposed to be ploughing be?”

Two steps forward. A ripping sword as Kuba shoved his sword through the man's stomach, savoring the gagging sound as blood filled the man's throat from the force. “Witcher,” he whispered, grinning as he withdrew his blade with a savage flourish and stepped back, letting the man's body fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

 

 

Kuba couldn't even say he was surprised when he rejoined Cerissa, finding her alone at the campsite. Already back to sharpening her knife, she didn't look up at him as he unfastened the bottom buckle of his sword harness and shrugged it the rest of the way off. She paused long enough to hand him a leather bundle.

“Remember to clean your sword,” she sighed, setting her knife aside after several passes with a whetstone.

“He said something.”

“Well obviously,” she tossed her head, scowling when her hair wouldn't settle properly. “Axii tends to make people talk.”

“No,” he puffed his cheeks but settled opposite of her at the fire, removing his sword from the scabbard and laying it down on the ground. “You get like this when Eskel presses,” he continued, wiping as much of the blood off as he could, “He said something that struck a nerve.”

“You're way too perceptive sometimes,” she murmured, finally looking up at him.

“Funny how the stupid little kid isn't all that stupid,” Kuba grumbled, puffing his cheeks. “So what happened?”

“I-” she stopped herself, shaking her head. “This is,” she stopped again, and Kuba looked up from his work.

“Cerissa?”

“I've pissed off the wrong person,” she decided on hurriedly. Setting her jaw, the same mask she wore during fights easily clicked back into place.

Kuba had to wonder how it was that Cerissa had mastered that shift in expression to make it look so easy. And when she had started to use it on him. She would laugh easily at the manor, her expressions warm. She wasn't what the legends made witchers out to be, never was, but seeing her eyes darken and the wall come down that stole the small quirk from her lips felt like a rejection. He wasn't allowed to know what troubled her, that wasn't his place. He hadn't been granted permission to know about her fears yet, she still expected him to be killed at any moment.

“I'm taking you back to Enna. You'll wait for Olwen and Amriel, while I-”

“No. You said no secrets.”

Not anymore. He wasn't going to be shut out.

“Kuba, I understand that, but-”

“You said no secrets,” he repeated, snorting. “I have never lied to you. Your turn.”

She glared at him, green eyes swirling in the firelight. She was trying not to spin the ring on her left hand, he could tell by the way her thumb twitched. Her right hand clenched, trying not to reach for her medallion to toy with the sharp edges while she thought. The slight tenseness in her jaw, the wrinkles around her eyes. Kuba only waited.

“By going to the king first I have interrupted a plot that apparently has been in the works since I came back to Enna,” she started slowly, grudgingly.

“To kill you?”

“No, to kill the king. Whoever controls the kingdom controls the wealth, and I'm sure you've noticed by now Kovir and Poviss are by no means Velen. No, taking my family manor as payment from the duke was only the first step. I took valuable resources out of the pool. Then the townspeople started trusting me. The royalty started finding uses for me where his reach was limited. Simply by becoming a useful tool of the court, I became a threat.” She stopped, finally giving into the temptation to absently spin her ring, “Dispose of the witcher and get an obstacle out of the way. But I revealed it was a trap first.”

“But they could have just attacked the manor or something,” Kuba's brow furrowed. “I don't why they had to fake a dragon or even a contract.”

“Thought I wouldn't question a royal seal, most likely. Forgery as it was, found the seal kit among his belongings. Told me of a few leads I tend to follow, one thread pointing to the isles, but-”

“That's not what's bothering you, though.”

She took a deep breath, ready to deny his accusation, but instead sighed heavily. “Answer something for me, Kuba?” He nodded, “Do you regret coming with me?”

“No.” He answered without pause, his frown deepening.

“That quick to answer?”

“Get torn apart by nekkers or jump off the cliff?” He shook his head, “Even I hadn't survived the Grasses, I wouldn't have lived long in Novigard alone.” He paused, choosing his words carefully, “Besides, I have a family now. I have a home. And as gross as it is being covered in blood and as much as I hate the way they look at me, I'm something more. No, I don't regret coming with you.” He stopped suddenly, eyes going wide, “He called you a child stealer.”

“He suggested I enjoyed what I did,” she shook her head.

“Sure, because every noblewoman loves listening to a little kid scream for days.”

“There are some that would,” she sighed, and he almost see the shift in conversation in her eyes, “Finish with your sword. Then get some sleep. We'll head out early in the morning.”

“Cerissa?” He paused as he slid the sword into his lap, pouring a small amount of oil on it. She looked up from placing another log on the now coals and raised an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. “It's not your fault. And I wouldn't blame you if you tried again.”

 


	6. On Revelations

It all seemed cliché, he had to admit. A rundown shack in the middle of the woods in a part of the continent he wouldn't have thought he would find himself otherwise. Olwen huffed next to him, blowing persistently at a lock of red hair that refused to stay in place.

“Are ye sure this is the right place?”

Amriel nodded silently, squinting in the near darkness. A sudden gust of wind whipped through the trees and down the bare path, cutting right through his clothes and making him shudder. “Something doesn't want us here.”

Rolling her neck in a way that somehow loosened her shoulders as well, Olwen grinned. Dressed in the heavy leathers she had acquired while in Toussaint with Cerissa, that morning was the first time he had seen wear them. It was odd to him, the witcheresses seeming to save their more expensive armor for tasks that they deemed more difficult or demanding. And while Olwen would charge into battle against all sorts of monsters with thin leathers and furs, she had insisted on wearing her school gear when the company split to investigate the leads Cerissa and Kuba had found.

“Shall we knock then?” She bowed, indicating the door.

He rolled his eyes, walking ahead of her. Olwen snickered as she ducked below the level of one of the windows, nodding to him once she got settled. Amriel sighed silently, shoulders sagging for a moment before he squared them again. Pounding on the front door with his fist, there was no response from inside after several minutes.

“Can hear at least two people,” Olwen provided, frowning.

“Smell blood or anything?”

She shook her head, “Nothin'. But me medallion's thumpin'. Doesn't like this place.”

“That makes two of us,” Amriel sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Then we get creative.”

“Amriel, don't you-”

She cursed as he vanished in a puff of ash. Things being knocked off. A muffled shout of surprise. A wet tearing. Crashing, clay pots falling from a height.

Then silence.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Amriel groaned as he opened the door several moments later, smiling as Olwen stood and straightened her clothes. Clutching at his shoulder, blood trickled from between his fingers. He gritted his teeth, and Olwen frowned at how he puffed out breaths with heaves of his chest.

“How bad is that-”

“Mission first,” he grunted, shaking his head then stepping aside.

Three men lay crumpled on the ground, one still groaning as he clutched his stomach. The other two suffering from knife wounds that seemed singed around the edges, there was very little blood despite the wounds being deep. Sparsely furnished, the table that once stood in the middle of the one room building was now broken in half, one of the expired men laying in the middle of the wood splinters. A stool missing two of its legs nearby, several scorch marks adorned the walls.

“All that fuss and there was only three of 'em?” Olwen's brow furrowed.

“Tell me what you see,” Amriel managed between gritted teeth, edging toward one side of the room.

Olwen scowled. His eyes darted about the room, never seeming to rest in one place for long. Shifting on his feet more often than usual, he scratched around the edges of his wound like Cerissa used to rub at her vampire bite scar. She slowly walked the border of the room, pausing the eastern corner seemed to hold her in place.

“I'm not seein' what you are, but somethin's making you mighty twitchy over there.”

“If I could get you to step aside for a moment, my dear, I would gladly show you.”

Olwen scowled, but did as he asked. Stepping out of some unseen boundary, there was a pop followed that almost made her stumble backwards. Amriel rushed forward, grabbing her and holding her against him while he focused on the seal in front of them. A circle encasing symbols he couldn't quite identify, he gritted his teeth as energy seemed to spiral around the circle. Digging his feet and bracing against the pull, he cursed himself for even attempting to access the magic in this room.

Olwen looked up at him, scowl only growing deeper at the beads of sweat on his brow. Lips moving in an unspoken spell, he wrenched his eyes shut and ducked his head. A gust of wind whipped through the air and he gripped Olwen tighter, fingers digging in against her mail and scratching at the skin.

Anything to focus. Anything to stay grounded in this world.

He groaned, fingers trembling. Something unseen was tugging at him, now feeling as though that same force was pushing him forward.

“Olwen,” he winced at the way his voice came out as a moan, “Cast Yrden, please.”

She didn't question him when he let go, fumbling with the casting gesture for a moment before touching the ground. Amriel dropped to his knees the moment the purple circle took shape around them, eyes clouded with tears and coughing. Face red and spit splattering the floor, he looked up weakly at the other circle and held out a trembling hand.

Muttering a command in the elder speech, he collapsed just as the portal on the other side of the room vanished into the symbols it was drawn with.

“Amriel!”

Looking between him and the now closed portal, Olwen gingerly gathered him up in her arms. He was pale, sweat coating his skin in a sticky sheen. Breathing ragged, Olwen could hear his heart racing. Limp in her arms, she frowned and bit back the tears that started to burn at her eyes.

“Amriel, come on. Stop playin',” she begged, shaking him slightly.

She barely smothered a scream when he only lolled in her grip, clutching him to her chest.

 

 

_Amriel stood in that same room, brow crumpling as he watched himself collapse within the relative safety of Olwen's already wavering casting. The air was tepid, the tugging gone. There was no sound, even as Olwen screamed for him, and he seemed no closer to her even as he stepped forward._

_“What the-”_

_“You toy with forces beyond your control, boy.”_

_He turned, expecting some sort of shadow, but only found the blank wall of the room waiting for him. Amriel scowled, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and trying to think. His scowl deepened when instead he groped at thoughts that seemed to slip through his fingers like mist. Just when something would start forming, it would vanish as he tried to latch onto the thought._

_“Forces beyond, hear my plea,” he intoned, the old words forming without him having to fumble with the thought. It felt natural, like a deep breath. In that moment he felt solid again, felt the tug of magic at his feet. Amriel hummed quietly, a soft smile forming at the warmth that filled him in place of the nothingness. “Come to me in my time of need,” he continued, smile spreading and tilting his head back at bubbling feeling starting to fill him._

_'Of course,' he thought, 'This is so much more raw to me right now. I'm not in my body.'_

_“Free me from bonds which cannot be seen.”_

 

 

The force was as though someone had punched him in his stomach, gasping when he was slammed back into his physical form. Sputtering, his mind raced. Blood roared in his ears. Everything too hot, Olwen's hold too tight. Amriel reached up with fumbling fingers, tugging at her chest plate to get her attention.

“Olwen,” he coughed, voice hoarse, “Please.”

“Amriel?”

Too much hope in her voice, too much desperation. Her fingers dug into his skin, something shaking him. Wincing as he opened his eyes into the afternoon light, he struggled to get his vision to focus. Something was sparkling in her eyes, something wet dripping on his face when she relaxed her hold on him.

“I'm alright,” he assured her, speech slurred. He huffed, letting his eyes close again. “What the hell did Cerissa get mixed up in now?” He groaned, one hand reaching up to rub at his forehead.

Olwen swallowed, licking at her lips. With a soft smile, Amriel reached out to her mind, a scowl marring his features when he skimmed through her thoughts.

_He could have died! But he's so casual about it! No, not again. Please not again. Don't let me lose someone else because of something I did. Please don't leave me alone again. I don't want to be alone again. No, not another demon. Not more spirits, not that shit. I can't-_

_Desperation sat heavily in her chest, squeezing her lungs until her throat felt like she couldn't breathe. Trapped. She was backed into a corner again, the thorns getting closer. Heart thudding at visions of a dark forest, fingers clutching to Amriel's shirt as if it would hold her in the present._

“Olwen,” he called, placing his free hand over one of hers, “I'm not going to leave you alone. I promise.”

“You shouldn't make promises you can't keep,” she stubbornly wiped a hand across her face.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Amriel held it as he gritted his teeth and sat up with a groan. _Please don't cry over me_ , he begged to himself, reaching up to push her long bangs out of her face. She started, not expecting the contact, and puffed her cheeks.

Swatting his hand away, she let go of him completely and didn't reach for him when he squirmed out of her lap. “So what was all that?” She set her jaw, looking anywhere but at him.

He sighed, shaking his head, and instead rocked onto his knees. “Stop running, Olwen. You're allowed to be scared.”

Her hands balled into fists where they rested on her lap. “What. Was. That.” She repeated through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing into a glare even as she continued to not look at him.

_Don't get attached. He's pretending, he always has been. No way he could-_

_I love you,_ he sighed, pushing the thought to her and smirked when she jumped as though he had spoken it aloud.

“Yer in me head, aren't ya?”

“Since you apparently think you are not allowed to trust yourself, then yes. And I will remain such until you learn that you are safe with me.” He rolled back onto his feet from his knees, dusting his clothes off once he was standing.

Without turning to look at her, he could feel her glare burning holes into his back, he crouched to the level of one of the men's bodies. Patting the pockets of both his vest and plants, Amriel frowned. Removing the single gold coin in the man's pocket, he turned it over in his hands with a thoughtful hum.

“What have you got there?” Olwen joined him, the suddenness of her voice would have made him jump if Amriel wasn't used to how silently the witchers he lived with moved. He wordlessly held up the oren for her to see, already rifling through another's pockets when she picked it from his fingers. “Just a Temerian oren?”

“Olwen, that's been territory of Nilfgaard for awhile. Most of the time you find florens or crowns now. Plus, anything seem odd about it to you?”

She turned the coin over in her hands, scowling. The face and printing worn mostly off, she admitted to herself that the coin felt lighter than normal. Squinting, she stepped over to a window and held it in the light, tilting it in various directions until a small glimmer caught her attention. A small recess just above the faded shape of a shield with lilies, she hooked her fingernail into the indent and tugged.

The whole top edge of the shield sliding up off of the coin, she pursed her lips and tugged the shield's face off the rest of the way. The edges filed down, the sides of the shield had been hollowed out so that the portion she pulled away could slide more easily. She walked back over to Amriel and held the coin flat in her hand to show him, crouching to his level.

“Secret compartment?”

Amriel shook his head, taking the portion of coin Olwen had pulled away. He turned it over in his hands several times before placing it back in Olwen's outstretched hand. “A key of some kind. A very well hidden key. But the question being is for what?”

“Maybe there's a loose board here...” Olwen mused, sliding the shield face back into place and straightening herself.

Amriel nodded, holding several more coins in his hand from the other two bodies that Olwen was willing to wager had been tampered with in the same way. She made a slow circle of the building, then followed each line of boards until one thumped under her foot. Set into the ground so it didn't stick out, it was missing three of the four nails that held the others in place. Stooping, she drew her knife and wedged it under the board, pressing down on the handle so the blade pushed the board upwards.

Once she had set the board aside and fished into the small compartment that sat under the floorboards, she raised an eyebrow at Amriel as if to ask for his permission to open the box that sat in front of her. Amriel nodded, kneeling next to her. Made of what felt like a heavy wood, the chest was no larger than a brick but twice as heavy. A mechanism held the lid shut, three small slits set in a brass colored circle. After pulling the shield from the other two coins Amriel had found, Olwen gingerly eased each into a hole in the mechanism. Amriel tensed with each small click, fingers already glowing in case the chest held some sort of trap.

Sliding the last key into place, there was a satisfying click before the latch released and the lid of the chest popped up. Olwen slipped only a finger under the lid, hooking her finger and pushing the lid open the rest of the way. Scowling, she looked at Amriel in confusion before looking back at the box.

Seemingly empty save for a lining of crushed velvet, Amriel shook his head and lowered himself on the ground next to her. “Let me take a look.”

Olwen nodded, watching as he pulled the chest into his lap. Running his hands over the smooth surface of the outside, his brow furrowed for a moment. Pursing his lips, he pulled the keys from the mechanism and flipped the chest over so the bottom was facing upwards. His gently glowing fingers glided over the surface, stopping in the middle when he felt something that looked like a scratch to Olwen. He slid one of the keys into place, grinning when a small panel on the side of the box popped out of place. Coaxing the panel out more, a small portion slid out of the bottom like a drawer, a single copper coin sitting amid a bed of the same velvet that lined the inside of the box.

Handing the coin to Olwen, he pulled the drawer out the rest of the way and pushed one of the keys into the slot in its place. Again there was another click, a portion of the bottom popping up like a small flap. Peeling the panel away, Amriel scowled at the clusters of small flowers nestled in the recess.

“Take those for me,” he muttered absently, holding the chest out to Olwen.

“Why?” She raised an eyebrow, but did as told. Both the coin and flowers she held flat in her hand, leaning forward as she watched him work.

“It's wolfsbane, Olwen. It's poison to a non-witcher,” he murmured, not looking up from the chest. He carefully ran his finger along the inside of the recess, pressing at the center of it and grinning at the click.

Quickly flipping the chest back over, the rest of the bottom fell way to reveal another compartment that held a jeweled dagger. The blade glistening, Olwen scrunched her nose at an acidic smell Amriel couldn't place.

“Smells like when the lass is making black gull,” Olwen groaned, laying the wolfsbane and coin down beside her. “Let me, don't know what's on the blade.” She wiggled her hands back into her thick leather gloves, pulling the compartment away so that Amriel could set the rest of the chest down.

“Black gull?” Amriel finally looked away from the chest to instead look at Olwen.

“Eh, there's two kinds of that stuff: black and white. White is what the lass puts in most of 'er potions, harmless even to non-witchers. Not even magic, it's a base of other stuff the lass makes that has a....” her face tightened, “Interesting effect.”

“Hallucinogenic?”

“Mildly. Extremely mild. Unless ye get blind drunk, you'll just think yer dreams are a wee bit odd that night,” Olwen nodded. “Black gull,” she shuddered, “Don't touch the stuff. Never have.”

“There's a reason Cerissa never let me try her drinks,” Amriel finished her thought.

Olwen nodded, “Both are clear and leave a slick feeling in yer mouth. I don't drink the stuff. She and Eskel do, usually it's diluted.” She shrugged, “It's just a witcher thing I never got m'self around to likin'. Both not toxic to yous, 'course, but enough t'make ye feel funny.”

He nodded, “And why would they leave a blade coated with what could possibly be a hallucinogen locked in a chest in the floorboard somewhere in the forest?”

“Don't ya have a key left?”

Amriel felt the inside of the chest, wincing when something sharp towards the front pricked his finger. He shook it, using the edge of his boot to tilt the chest forward so he could peer into it. A sharp groove was carved in the front edge, looking as though it was hastily filed in at the last moment. Olwen must have sensed his hesitation, picking up the chest and slipping the last key into place.

This time there was no click. Amriel frowned, “Take the shield back out.” Olwen puffed her cheeks, but did as told. “Of course you see better right now than I do, but-” he grumbled, words trailing off when he slid the edge of the shield along the groove. Catching on a small latch, he tugged at it until there was a click.

No portion of the chest seeming to move, he scowled and tilted it in various directions to see if anything slid out of place. Once again feeling the inside of the box, his brow furrowed with a quiver of his lips.

“Dead end?”

Amriel shook his head. “Let me see the knife.”

“Only if ye wear a glove,” Olwen set her jaw, “Don't need ya t'be losin' yerself on me.”

He rolled his eyes with a sigh but relented, slipping on the offered glove. Checking every recess in the dagger, he squinted and reached over to the chest to pull the last shield free again. Pressing the bottom edge of the shield into the recess, the bottom of the dagger fell out with a loud clatter and a vial fell to the ground. Olwen snatched it before Amriel could even touch it, sniffing at it once she removed the cork and her face scrunching up at the smell.

“What is it?”

“A mix of poisons,” she managed, voice sounding strained as if she was gagging. “Lass could tell ye exactly what.”

Amriel nodded, running his finger along the inside of the dagger and pulling out a slip of paper. Reading over the list of names, he paused and his eyes flew to Olwen's face.

“What?”

“A list of nobles. And our resident griffin's name is on it.”

“All from Kovir?”

Amriel shook his head, rolling the list back up and slipping it back into place. Placing the end of the knife back, he handed it back to Olwen. “Regardless, we should get out of here.”

“Yeah, but that portal-”

“Smudge the edges with your foot,” Amriel provided, hurriedly getting to his feet. “I am not going near that thing.”

“Amriel,” she called gently when he crossed the room, barely on her feet by the time he had reached the door way. “What did the paper really say?”

“We need to get home,” he answered without looking at her, “And I really wish our wolf was home for this.”

 


	7. On Surprises

__Amriel shoved the door to the study open with a huff, not bothering to explain himself when Cerissa raised an eyebrow in his direction. Settled at her desk with Kuba, the top of her desk was covered in books he recognized as the ones she had salvaged from her keep. He paused, skimming over the open pages but snorting when nothing seemed of consequence to him.

“What's wrong?”

Amriel sighed, “Long story short, found a list of names. Yours is on it. There was a vial of some kind of poison and-”

Cerissa held up her hands to stop him, brow furrowing. “You're going to have to tell me the full version, Amriel.”

Kicking the extra stool out from under her desk, Kuba scooted his chair aside to make room for Amriel. “But why would-” 

“Not right now, Kuba, please,” Amriel shook his head, gently stopping him. “I'm sorry, usually I would go into more detail, but just let me explain things to Cerissa.”

Kuba gritted his teeth, puffing his cheeks as he usually did when he was trying not to say anything. Huffing as he resettled in his chair, he looked from Amriel to Cerissa, just as Olwen leaned against the frame of the open study door. Frowning, her coppery hair fell messily around her face from the rain. Still dressed in her armor, it wasn't until Cerissa looked back at Amriel that she realized he was dressed in still dripping clothes as well.

“This couldn't wait until you changed?”

“I managed to figure out the most dragged out puzzle box I have ever seen, nearly died to seal a magic portal, and found your name in a hollow dagger with a vial of poison and you're worried about me getting sick?” Amriel stared at her, shaking his head.

 “Naturally, considering you're only non-witcher who lives here.”

 “Cerissa, listen to me, please. Now is really not the time for your clever wit.”

Olwen crossed the room with a heavy sigh, huffing as she lay a jeweled knife on the table. She watched as Cerissa carefully picked it up, scowling when the end of the handle came off in her hand. “You said there was a vial, Amriel,” she mused, slipping her finger into the knife and pulling out the scrap of paper.

Olwen fished in her pocket for a vial and set it on the edge of Cerissa's desk. The glass appearing frosted, it was cold despite being held against Olwen's body in her pocket. Cerissa tapped it, pausing for a moment before picking it up and removing the cork.

“Mimosa maybe?” She provided without having to smell it better. “No, not acidic enough. Wouldn't have a cool feeling. This may take awhile...” her thoughts trailed off and she corked the bottle again, setting it aside on her desk. “Kuba, I'm sorry, but-”

 “I'm helping,” he huffed, frowning. “You said no secrets. That goes both ways, Cerissa.”

She blinked, looking up at Olwen who only shrugged. Amriel was trying his best to smother a grin, biting his bottom lip in effort to hide his amusement and only managing to smother a chuckle. Kuba set his jaw, swallowing. He sat up in his chair, straightening his shoulders and meeting Cerissa's eyes in a way that felt more like a challenge. She had to admit, she wasn't sure where his newfound confidence had come from but it certainly was not making things easier on her. He instead met her eyes without even trying to not look away.

There was a time the eyes that glared at her would have been dark. There was a time when the shadows under his eyes would have been from something other the troubled sleep he had since his run of the Grasses. But instead green-yellow eyes not unlike her own glowered at her, the same stubborn head tilt and jaw set she had worn so many times when she begged Fareal to let her tag along on harder contracts. It hadn't taken long for her to grow bold too, demanding to be included on business that was usually considered above the novices. But she didn't accept that as an answer.

And neither would Kuba.

He was too much like her, she was beginning to realize and she had a moment of self-pity before sighing. Kuba squared his shoulders, opening his mouth as if to protest, and his hands balled into fists where they rested in his lap.

“Kuba-”

“No. I'm tired of you trying to protect me. I understand, I know you love me. But I heard what Geralt said. I'm not the scared one, you are. I want to do everything you do. I want to go on long rides with you three and take on contracts. I want to be a witcher. But you won't let me.”

Cerissa looked at Amriel as if to ask for help, but he only looked away. Lips curling in against his teeth, Amriel instead pretended to be more interested in the ceiling. Shoulders sagging, she snorted and resigned herself to the fact he wasn't going to back down. He was just like her, just as willing to push and shove to find a place of his own on the path he'd been set on. And just like she had with Fareal, he had sought her out.

He wanted this.

“You're right,” she admitted, trying hold back her smile when relief flooded his features. “And I should apologize for not trusting you more. You're not a child anymore.”

“...You're not mad with me? Usually you get mad when I have outbursts like that...”

“No,” she shook her head, “You're right. I just didn't listen to the very person I sought council from. Now,” she looked instead to Amriel, “Can I ask a favor?”

“Always,” he nodded, not bothering to hide his grin. “Here when you need me.”

“Some of these names I know. Some I don't. I need to you to find where these other names are from, please.”

“Say no more,” he offered something of a mocking bow, holding his hand against his stomach and dipping low with a wide grin, “Your wish is my command.”

Cerissa rolled her eyes, turning her attention to Olwen. “You are welcome to help, but-”

“Poisons aren't my thing, lass. Don't worry. I'll keep our elf safe while 'e looks into it fer ye,” she waved Cerissa off, then swept her hand over her face to get her hair out of it. “We'll be upstairs in m'room if you need us.”

Taking a moment to ruffle Kuba's hair before leaving, Amriel wrapped an arm around Olwen's waist and tugged her upstairs. Kuba frowned, frantically trying to comb his hair back down with his fingers, and huffed before Cerissa coughed to catch his attention. He blinked, focus snapping to her, and nodded.

“If you're going to help, Kuba, you're going to have to pay attention. Now, first instinct, if you had to kill someone quickly and make a blade oil to do it with, what would you use?”

“Wolfsbane. Maybe ground peach pits.”

“Good start,” she provided, getting up from her chair and putting a hand on his head when she walked around to warn him she was behind him. “Now think. Any plant extracts you know of that feel cool to the touch?”

“Menthol, mint...” He frowned, “I don't see how or why those would be used in a-” He paused, and she nodded.

Inspecting one of her bookshelves thoroughly, she frowned while she searched for a particular book. The spines all wrinkled and the golden lettering falling off most of them, he had no idea how she could tell them apart without pulling every single one off the shelves and opening to the first pages. But she insisted that she could simply by how well they were used or their coloring. She insisted that she knew every book in her library by appearance alone. While location sometimes escaped her, it was still a marvel to watch her effortlessly reach for a book that she wanted.

The most used in piles around her desk, others were on small shelves around her desk that were littered with folded pages or pages entirely missing. Those were the ones that he knew she had bought second hand or found during her travels. She had one, she refused to say where it had come from, that he swore would crumble into dust under her fingers and yet she handled it so delicately. The pages crinkling as she turned them, the gilding on the edges was long wore off until it left a vague green-ish tinge on the pages. It was this volume she pulled off the shelf now, carefully flipping through the pages thoughtfully for a moment.

“Where did that one even come from?” He tried again to ask.

“Gift,” she provided, voice absent.

“From?”

She sighed, shaking her head with a soft smile. “You won't relent, will you?” He shook his head with a proud grin and she chuckled quietly, flipping a page. “Eskel let me take it when he took me to Kaer Morhen. Now shush.”

“You've been there?!”

She nodded, once again putting a hand on the top of his head as she squeezed behind him and slid into her chair. “It was a book I had never seen and I swear it's as old the keep itself. The lettering is horrendous, obviously someone's handwriting, but-” she paused, “Found it. So, your theory, my little bird?”

“It's not a toxin, but an antidote.”

She nodded. “Remember the vial we took from the man on the road that tried to ambush us?”

“Hemlock.”

“And what does a distillate of hemlock due to a normal mortal?”

“Seizures, mostly. A closing airway and rapid, thready pulse.” He paused, “Why did you have to consult some ancient witcher's journal for that?”

“Tell me, Kuba, is there a cure for hemlock poisoning?”

“Not really. But I don't see how that's really relevant right now.”

“Wolf school style derives from using your enemies weakness as your strengths and being able to manage a fight in your favor, through whatever means necessary. That includes blade oils and extracts applied to weapons. Traditionally, projectiles are not used though young adepts are trained in them to be able to adapt to any situation, same as you were trained. This,” she held up the book slightly to indicate the journal, “is a record from long before Eskel or Geralt were even thoughts. So I hoped that there this was where I had found an unusual recipe for blade oil. And I was right. Now, also included was a possible antidote for the blade oil.”

“But witchers are immune to most poisons.”

“Tolerance,” she corrected, “We have a tolerance to most toxins. But as you saw when I took Petri's Filter, they can still effect us. So of course it would make sense if attempting to develop a blade oil for use against non monsters to also develop an antidote.”

“Wouldn't white honey work?”

“Depends. You're right, most of the time, yes it would. But there's been several times I needed a little more and Amriel had to help me because of a sensory overload.”

“Like a seizure.”

“Not quite that far, no, but, a good start.” Kuba yawned, cursing himself when she laughed. “Boring you already?”

“No,” he protested, shaking his head, “I can stay up. Just was a rough ride home. I'm okay.”

“Hey Cerissa,” came Amriel's voice from the top of the stairs, “Our little friend is here to visit the young master, if you're not too busy boring him with witcher theory.”

Cerissa scowled, rolling her eyes and ruffled Kuba's hair when he straightened but hesitated to get up. “Go see Mirek. You two haven't seen each other in awhile. Play some gwent or something.”

“...Can I borrow your deck?” He hesitated, biting at his lip with a wide smile. “I've never played Monsters and-”

“You don't get my witcher cards, but yes.” She sighed, tugging one of the drawers of her desk open and pulling out a small, red bundle. Shuffling through her deck, she pulled out several cards and set them aside before placing the rest back in the bag and handing it to Kuba.

Kuba whooped when he got up from his chair, throwing his arms around Cerissa's neck and squeezing. “Thank you! I promise I'll take care of it!” Eagerly snatching the bundle from Cerissa's hand, he ran up the stairs, taking them two at time.

 

  
“Kuba!” Mirek hugged him tightly, squeezing for a moment before pulling back to look at him. He frowned, “You look rough.”

“First long ride with Cerissa,” he provided in terms of answer, shaking his head. “Was out for a few days, then we ran into trouble, so that set us back for awhile and-” he stopped himself, “Sorry, witcher stuff. Won't bore you with that details.”

Mirek shook his head, “Not boring. Never boring. Come on, my auntie bought me some new cards and I've been dying to play. You can tell me while we play.”

Kuba's smile was soft as he took the other boy's hand and led him into the dining room. He focused hard, his movements exaggerated, as he lit the fireplace and tried to bite back the pride at the glimmer in Mirek's eyes. “Your birthday is coming up, right?”

Mirek frowned, shoulders sagging, “Today, actually.”

Kuba spun, instead putting the bag of Cerissa's cards on the table. “Why didn't you tell me? Come on, I could get some of the change from a few contracts and we could go get something sweet, or-”

Mirek instead looked down, blushing as he kicked at the ground. “You don't have to spend your money on me.”

“Not like I have to repair my gear, Cerissa pays for it still. She tells me to save my money for my first silver sword.” Kuba shook his head, “Come on, we'll go get candy floss or some of those pastries you like. You brought your cloak, right? It's a little cold out.”

“It's always cold in Enna,” Mirek shrugged. “We're in the mountains.” He laughed when Kuba rolled his eyes, then stopped as his face drained of color. One hand flew to his mouth, eyes eyes dropping to the ground and Kuba could recognize the expression immediately.

Kuba sighed, shaking his head, and stepped closer to gently tug the hand away from Mirek's mouth. “Here you can be loud. Laughing is okay. Poking fun at me is okay. Those are normal, okay?” Mirek nodded, still working at his bottom lip with his teeth, but didn't look up to meet Kuba's eyes. “Mirek. It's okay. I'm not mad.”

“Promise?”

Kuba nodded, his smile gentle. “Promise.”

 

The winter solstice had not graced the city with its presence yet and already Kuba could see his breath in warm puffs. Mirek practically clung to his arm, tripping over both of their cloaks on occasion. Each time he would apologize and each time Kuba would simply ruffle the other boy's hair and insist he didn't need to apologize. He admitted to himself that he felt naked without the weight of his sword on his back, but the knowledge that he had his knife stashed in his boot was enough to ease the discomfort. The market mostly barren this time of the year save for the butcher hoping to sell off the rest of his salted meats before the frost came and the herbalist that waved at Kuba as they passed.

“Young master! So good to see you this brisk afternoon! Tell your mother I have the order she placed when you get the chance.” 

“Order?” Mirek asked a few moments later.

“Cerissa's trying to work on a new potion and needed a few things she couldn't get in Kovir. A lot of it is creature parts she had been looking for when she went south, but asked if the herbalist could help her find some of them,” Kuba provided with a shrug, “I'm never in there by myself, don't need to quite yet, but she takes me when she goes so I get used to it.”

The smell from the bakery easily made its way up the street, luring in passersby with the aroma of fresh bread and the occasional sweet. The thick glass of the store front was fogged over from the warmth inside, the shapes of the people inside barely being anymore than blurry shapes through the moisture. Mirek's expression lightened at his first whiff, looking at Kuba with wide eyes.

“Please?”

“That's the whole point of coming out here,” Kuba laughed, nodding. “Plus, Marian asked me to pick up a few things.”

“The brave witcher is an errand boy?” He grinned, smothering a small laugh.

“To the staff, I'll always be a little kid.”

The brass knob of the front door was freezing to the touch, and Kuba gathered up a small portion of his cloak to grip the handle. Pushing the door open, the two were greeted by a rush of warm air and Kuba ushered Mirek in before too much of the cold air got in. Nudging the door shut behind them, the few people in the store paused to look who had entered before going back to their business. The older woman behind the counter smiled at the boys, her eyes almost disappearing into her wrinkled face. Grayed hair held behind a thin bonnet, her hands showed every year her face did.

“Kuba, my dear,” she called over the counter, “Out running errands between lessons?”

Kuba grinned, nodding eagerly, and wormed his way through the crowd to the counter. An older man muttered something under his breath even as Kuba excused himself with muttered apologies, frowning when just as he got himself settled again, Mirek sheepishly excused himself as well.

“Children,” he grumbled, and Kuba frowned at how Mirek's shoulders bunched up, almost flinching at the word as if the man had instead raised his voice to yell at the boy.

Kuba instead tugged Mirek closer, pulling him up to the counter with him. “It's his birthday, too, ma'am. So I promised him a treat.”

“What a wonderful friend you are, my dear,” the old woman nodded. “I have some croissants fresh from the oven. Maybe a biscuit or two? I have those spiced ones you like.”

“What's a croissant?” Mirek muttered to Kuba.

“A pastry from Toussaint,” he provided, “They're flaky and shaped like the moon when it's small. They're nice with some cocoa or tea, if you want to try one.”

“Can I have a spice biscuit too?”

“Whatever you want. Your birthday.”

 

   

Mirek practically cooed as they walked back to the manor, cold fingers sapping the warmth from the pastry he held in his hands. He smiled, thanking Kuba repeatedly, and didn't bother to wipe the crumbs from his face as he ate. For a fleeting moment, there was a tug at Kuba he couldn't quite place and he struggled to hide the frown on his face. Instead readjusting the parcel under his arm, he sighed softly as they turned a corner.

“Someone's following us,” he muttered, and Mirek blanched. “Don't look, they'll just run.”

“Isn't that what you want?”

“I doubt they're following two teenagers because they want our coin for fisstech, Mirek.”

“You are a noble's son.”

“I certainly don't look it right now,” Kuba shook his head and handed the wrapped parcel under his arm to Mirek. “Just in case, hold on to that for me.”

“But you don't have a weapon,” he hissed, casting a sweeping glance back at the man who followed several paces behind.

“Wrong, and also dangerous to assume I need one to fight.”

The man's footsteps quickened, but he froze when Kuba grabbed Mirek's arm and turned to face the man. He set his jaw with a narrow glare, daring the man to come closer. The man sneered, crooked teeth showing, and drew a knife from the holster at his hip. Kuba sighed, letting go of Mirek and taking a few steps forward to put space between them.

“Stupid boy.”

Kuba didn't even frown, instead simply holding his arms out to the side, “Come on, then.”

The man's face twisted in on itself and he practically screamed as he charged forward, tripping with the extra momentum when Kuba simply stepped aside. He tumbled over himself, dropping the knife, that Mirek hurriedly snatched off the ground before worming his way back into the crowd. Kuba smiled at that, seeing the proud gleam in his friend's eye when he could be of some use. The man groaned as he got back to his feet, turning to again face Kuba who only shrugged.

“You're one of those freaks!”

He raised an eyebrow with a snort, “I admit, a noble's son knowing how to scrap like a street urchin is-”

The man roared again, bringing a fisted hand in a wide swing around to punch Kuba. He ducked, curling two fingers in slightly, and pushed against the man's ribs where his arm met his shoulder. The man shouted in surprise, hurrying back several steps, and rubbed at the spot for several moments before stepping forward again. Managing to connect a punch with Kuba's jaw, he grinned.

Kuba gritted his teeth against the blow, letting himself following the motion and not bothering to rub at the spot when the man withdrew his hand.  He took a deep breath, shaking his head to try and refocus, and caught one of the man's punches as he tried again. Holding the fist as tightly as he could, Kuba rotated the hand, so the man's forearm was exposed then stepped forwards so he could push the man's arm down and back.

 He shouted, trying to wiggle his way free, and Kuba grinned when the man only managed to pop his shoulder. “That's be honest with each other, shall we? Why are you following me?”  
  
“Boss wanted some whelp that looked like you. Said he was too big a prize to pass up.”

“Not good enough,” Kuba yanked at the man's arm, savoring the shout of pain.

“That's all I know, I swear!”

“Where would I find this boss of yours?”

“Like I'd-” He stopped when Kuba again pulled at his arm, twisting it beyond the comfortable point of rotation. “Okay, okay! Down by the docks. Sewer entrance by the main pier.”

“Knew we could come to an agreement,” he smirked, pulling the man down to his level with a sudden tug. “Now sleep.” The man didn't have the time to say anything before Kuba gripped the man's hair and slammed his head into the wall behind them. He sighed, completely letting go as the man crumpled to the ground.

“Where's the knife?” Kuba muttered, stepping over the man's body and trying to ignore the glares of the now gathered crowd around them.

“Right here.” Mirek held it up, “Why?”

“Have a suspicion. Come on, let's get back to manor. Cerissa needs know about this.”

 

 

“Hollow just like the other one,” Cerissa mused, “But no vial. No lingering smell of blade oil or poisons,” she huffed, setting the knife aside on her desk. It lacked the ornamentation of the other knife, and wasn't nearly as heavy. The design on the handle was simple, chevron woven leather than barely concealed the counter balance on the grip. While there was a hidden compartment, it was empty. As far she could tell, it was a similar metal but not made in the same forge.“Did you take Mirek home?”

“No,” Kuba shook his head. “He's upstairs waiting for me. But I wanted to get back and tell you what happened.”

“Half surprised you didn't go run off to investigate on your own,” she smiled, sitting back in her chair.

“A witcher never seizes an opportunity the moment it presents itself, but rather waits for the most ideal moment to strike,” Kuba quoted, sticking his tongue out. “Eskel used to tell me that all the time, says I'm too much like you. Besides, I had Mirek with me and didn't have my sword. And then if Marian's bread got too cold, she'd be upset.”

Cerissa laughed after a few beats, the sound filling the room, “Sounds like something he would say, too."

“You miss him,” Kuba noted once Cerissa's smile had faded, her thumb rubbing at the ring.

“He is...” she stopped herself. “I know you two don't exactly see eye to eye on anything, but I owe Eskel a lot, Kuba. But you're right, I do miss him, more than I probably should.”

“You love him,” Kuba shook his head, shrugging. “There's no wrong way to miss someone.”

“You've been spending too much time with Olwen,” she sighed, “Go run along and spend time with your boyfriend. We'll go later together and investigate. Sound like a plan?”

Kuba nodded, hesitating as if he wanted to add something, but shook his head. “Out with it,” Cerissa prompted.

“I don't know my real birthday, but could we pick a day and just use that?” He huffed, shoulders sagging as he held his arms behind him, one rubbing at the other. “It just feels...odd not to have a day to mark I've made it another year. I mean, we could use the day I woke up after the Grasses, but-”

“Find a date you like and we can,” she nodded. “Just remember, that's something most witchers forget about as they get older.”

“I figured, but just for awhile...can I feel something like a kid?”

“I don't see a problem with that,” Cerissa's smile softened, holding a hand out to him in invitation. He took it, and stiffened when she tugged him closer suddenly. “You're growing up so fast. Enjoy the small moments while you still can,” she whispered, hugging him tightly for a few moments before releasing him.

 

 

“She's not mad?”

Kuba shook his head, “Proud, actually, that I didn't get myself in even more trouble by running off without coming to her first.” He huffed, shoulders sagging as she slumped heavily in one of the salon's chairs. “I'm sorry your birthday got messed up with all of this.”

Mirek laughed, “I've gotten used to it. It seems like every time we do something it turns into an adventure.”

Kuba allowed that much. The other boy was right, it seemed like every time they were alone together something happened that managed to make the situation more than they were planning for. And more often than not, Kuba was busy trying to keep Mirek out of the trouble. Sometimes it ended in injury, other times it ended more calmly, like this one had. He was lucky, he would admit it, that the situation didn't get out of hand quickly. One was easy to manage with a crowd of people watching and virtually unarmed, he wasn't sure if he would have been to able to manage any more than he did. Mirek was forgiving enough, but Cerissa wouldn't have been if it ended with the city guard getting involved. There was a delicate dance to this that Kuba was still learning and while he would have liked to say he was managing to learn the steps quickly, he did occasionally get caught off guard or given more than he could manage.

“I'll go get us come cocoa. And we can play cards. You've got new ones, right? And Cerissa's letting me play her deck...with some cards taken out.”

“...Why would she take some out?”

“I know she'd take Geralt's out because of the sentimental value,” Kuba shrugged, stretching his arms over his head as he stood. “I really think she's trying to get me used to playing without relying on rarer cards. But like I said, let me go see if Marian will make some cocoa. You have still have one of those pastries, right? They taste awesome dipped in it.”


End file.
